


Dancing on top of the flames

by DidiNyx



Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan
Genre: Afterlife, American History, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle Scenes, Battlefield, Brotherly Love, Canon Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Civil War, Death, Fights, Historical References, Literary References & Allusions, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Mythology References, Origins, Other, Period Typical Attitudes, Religious Discussion, Slavery, Valhalla, i know tj loves edgar allan poe and if you dont believe be me reread the sword of summer, trigger warning: guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-07-06 14:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidiNyx/pseuds/DidiNyx
Summary: "There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made."~Edgar Allan Poe, "The Masque of the Red Death"





	1. Keep fighting close, and faith even closer

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since the beginning of the series, I've adored TJ to pieces. Now that The Ship of the Dead is out we finally know his full origin story, which I've been so hyped for. 
> 
> In honor of my favorite character in this lovely series, here's my take on the canon origin story of the mighty Thomas Jefferson, Jr. <3 Bless him.

The breeze's heat thickened in spite of the cloudy, bleak weather that ensured a sense of anxiety and restlessness upon the African-American crew as the Union ship continued steadily on its way. The striped flag with its white stars hung proudly near the mass, waving with the wind as if sending a silent melody of hope during the voyage generations would surely talk about in the future. The story of how the North's fight with the Confederacy started with a bang-- even allowing the colored folks of the nation to join in the fight, too.

TJ wasn't in his homegrown Boston anymore.

As his comrades either paced or threw up beside him overboard, TJ kept glancing at the sunless sky, grinning. As others' hearts pumped with dread and uneasiness, TJ's felt the thrill of adventure, his hands practically itching for the moment he's allowed a _real gun_ to hold in his hands to fight for Boston, and his ancestors, and for the future Americans to talk about their valiant energy and success. Oh, father would be so proud. It had been so long! _All those years of fights, running, working, taking care of Mama... It's finally going to be worth it._  

Pure insanity, it is. After all those stories of court, daily whippings, multiple jobs, and premature deaths, TJ's community now had the opportunity to rise up, and it wasn't something to take lightly. That "insanity" was welcomed-- Who would've known their destiny was right here, _right now_? Some were too scared to change their monotonous life of nothing but useless work that wasn't going to get you much anywhere. Sure, some negroes were lucky to be freed. _But then what?_  No, this was the military. This was honor, victory--and death. But that had already been there, so there's no use in fretting about _that._ Scared? No, not TJ. He was already free in his mind.

"Some are too scared to change," TJ remembered an African-American advocate for the cause announcing. "But it's absolutely necessary if you want to better your life. Fight the good fight... Find your freedom." TJ recalled the memory in glee. Mother warned him not to be on the streets, but he paid no heed. He snuck out to hear what the man had to say after seeing the miraculous poster calling for all colored men wanting to take their shot that could determine the rest of their life and legacy. The hope stirred the most reckless, eager behavior from within. He could not fail.

He tapped his foot eagerly and ran his finger through his dark, curly hair. _This is what it feels like to be a white man, huh?_ , he thought. _Today, I am no longer just some Boston negro. I'm a man. I'm grown._

"Sure you are," someone behind him retorted, and TJ immediately recognized it as his friend, William H. Butler. He spun around, grin planted firmly on his face. "I mean, we're on a _ship_!" TJ said, gesturing wildly to his sides. 

Another crew member threw up as he did so.

Butler raised his eyebrows. "Yes, and men are becoming ill by the second, Jefferson." He rolled his shoulders impatiently, then violently fixed his cravat. "Oh, and speaking of which, don't forget your namesake."

TJ's mouth twitched downward but didn't allow his energy to be dulled. He scoffed, stretching and yawning as if bored. "How could I? Maybe one day I'll be living just as lavish as the old, hypocritical knave." Suddenly, TJ's brown eyes brightened. "Then maybe the whole _We hold these truths to be self-evident_ part will be true!"

Butler shook his head solemnly. "You're as unrealistic as a child."

TJ pouted. "And you're as stiff as the rest of our affluent white majority."

Butler shot him an irritated look, but TJ knew it came from the brotherly love and protection he regarded toward himself. Butler walked closer, tilting his head to signal TJ to follow him to the ship's rail. As he did so, he gently pulled TJ by the arm as if the latter was going to jump with enthusiasm by the mere touch. They made it to the side, and Butler muttered low and bitter: "They bring our people over on slave ships. They free us. They promise to pay us to fight. Then they put us right back into the belly of a ship."

There was a long paused as Butler stared out at the calm waves, the beauty of the water reflecting in his eyes but only resulting in a stormy countenance as if he was the wind that'd cause the ship's disastrous hurricane if given the change. As if he wished the ship was full of all the oppressors--in America _and_ Europe-- and with one single command he'd drown out their toxic oxygen to assure the remainder of the land not corrupted by society belonged to his people-- the _deserving_ people.

He looked thirsty for blood to shed-- and not his own.

TJ understood that anger. For the love of _God_ , everyone on this ship knew that rage, that wrath that boiled inside the tired hearts of the working class. It was no secret, it was nothing they didn't know. But TJ didn't want to sulk or make himself depressed with the reminders of the tragedies before them. Heaven knows there's always been death, killing, murder, racism, and overall hate. Humanity has known that since the beginning of their time, and still could not civilize their prejudice. By now all of eternity knows the conundrum. God be _damned_ , of _course_ TJ felt fiery hell too.

Of course, he'd remember. He had to so their story could live on. But he didn't want to be the victim of his own loathing. He wanted to turn that passion into the energy that'd satisfy his desire for something more-- that's the _real_ good fight. But Butler wouldn't hear it. He'd stay bitter for all his days and afterlife, regardless of how free they were. Then again, he had beyond reasonable explanation.

"These ships," TJ said, "are our ticket to get that damned South fixed."

Butler nodded, brow furrowing. "It's also our ticket to inevitable death and more human suffering-- I mean, that's what war has always been. Time is the ultimate decision-maker and unfortunately, none of us here are prophets."

TJ shrugged. "There's God."

"Ha! If there's truly a God, not a single black man to walk this Earth would _ever_ step foot on a ship."

Tj hit Butler's back good-naturedly. "There's light at the end of the tunnel, my friend. We're grasping it right now." He squeezed Butler's hand. "You need faith."

Butler, now with a tired expression, smiled sadly. "I don't want to lose another brother, Thomas."

TJ shook his head. "We have bigger problems," he chuckled. "But in all seriousness, look at this as a new chapter. One we're totally going to take on, head-first." Now he lowered his voice: "We gotta keep climbing that mountain. Nobody's going to to do it for us."

Butler nodded. "Okay." He glanced behind him and finally smiled. "Now, I don't wanna hear any more Shakespearean soliloquies. I'd much rather eat lunch-- Which, by the looks of it, is another round of hard bread and sour molasses. We feast!"

* * *

The conditions in which the ship sailed were tolerable and TJ didn't complain. There was simply no room for it. Mother would always scold Thomas for being ungrateful if the surplus in food at the dinner table was unfavorable in his young mind. "You know how many people starving right now?" she once asked, voice low. "We're lucky for this much. Eat, Thomas."

So he never complained much again.

Mother was such a hard-worker. With premature gray hair and stress wrinkles from working, she looked more of an old grandma weary from everyday life than a middle-aged woman. However, TJ always kissed mother on the cheek and said she looked beautiful and healthy, and the youth to this very day was willing to fight anyone and everyone who disagreed and frowned down upon her. (There a few times he heard the elite white women make fun of her plain gingham dress and even as a child it made his heart race with anger.)

She had her faith and held the remainder of her family close, and that was heroism enough for TJ. He loved her stories, her calloused hands gripping his small ones, her weary smile after a long day's of work, her rough but sweet notes of a lullaby her ancestors knew and passed down for generations.

TJ loved his mother. She was the only parent he had left-- and Thomas was the only child she had left. This, along with the general knowledge of their community's shared tragedy, ultimately and inevitably made her overprotective to a fault, and it was like that ever since TJ was a small boy. Perhaps the only rebellious action his mother had for a long time was using irony when naming her black, ex-enslaved baby boy after a notorious slaveholder who preached about liberty. She had high praise and hopes for her child to be that one out of a million to have the strength to fight back-- yet that title had its boundaries.

Once, when TJ was ten, she finally snapped after a particularly bad week of whatever town drama she'd been witnessing. She had gripped his thin shoulders urgently, saying "Don't you _ever_ point that at a white man," in a strained tone.

TJ winced, biting his lip. "Ma, it's just a stick... I was only playing."

Tears welled up in mother's eyes. "You don't _get_ to play." Her hands shook violently. "You play-shoot at a white man with a stick, and he's going to real-shoot you back." TJ looked down, ashamed, and mother continued: "I'm not losing another child, Thomas. You hear me?" She shook him, nails digging into his skin. TJ immediately nodded, wiping away his tears. He let himself be pulled into a suffocating hug, never forgetting the way mother sobbed afterward.

Of course, young Thomas didn't try to stand up to authority for a long time after his incident. But he let that feeling of mother's own fear, rage and regret influence him like a drug. And when the time was right, he'd get high enough to crash into the waves and scream for change. It was the spark that made the flame of TJ's teenage years as rough as it became. 

He would find himself searching for trouble, essentially. Wanting to have debates, questioning his surroundings, ready to fight. He was careful enough around the white folk but subtly had ways to irritate and even confused them without tremendous punishment taking charge. He was clever, and a lot of people knew that all too well. Mother warned that his wit, though a blessing, could throw people off and make them suspicious of action. However, TJ didn't easily submit. He kept his guard up but made adventure out of any situation so effortlessly that it was hard to know when he was causing jest or causing the tension to rise.

He tried his best to keep mother's values close while still managing to keep his brash energy. Mother knew this too, and soon gave up with pressuring him to make him picture perfect. "You listen here," she said with all the confidence left in her aging soul, "I want you to be modest with your faith, your background. I don't want to see you pick fights you're going to lose... But if there's one thing this cruel world taught me, it's that my boy is a dreamer, a fighter. They come hand-in-hand, just like pride and humiliation. Both are important so one doesn't overpower the other. That fire you have? That's going to help you be my survivor." They shared a smile, and mother continued: "At the end of the day, that's all you have left. So own it big, son. Own it big."

Thomas would remember that when mother was deathly ill, on her deathbed. She repeated her beliefs, her hopes and satisfaction with her son. From that very day, Thomas Jefferson, Jr. swore up to God and His heaven above that he'd live up to what mother dreamed.

She, too, was a fighter after all.

*

Now TJ was on his own.

Mother was gone, father had been gone for quite awhile. Only when the former ceased he started to question the latter. Why did he leave, for real? What was he like? Could TJ make him proud? Where was he now? Working on the plantations or freed? Did he know about America's upcoming war? Did he look like mother, aging and stern with calloused hands so warm to the touch and the deepest chocolate eyes? Did he have gray hair too or was he young? Was he loud and pugnacious or was he quiet and solemn? The questions remained unanswered in regards to Thomas' past, but he was certain of his future.

One evening he was running--again-- from some other negro he had irritated too much at the bar. TJ didn't go there for drinks (no, mother would have looked down from Heaven and shun him) but for the political talks. They were one of the only things that kept him interested besides his daydreaming and constant reading. (Plus, he had to be careful about the latter. If any of the white folk new, would they report him? TJ didn't want to test his prediction.) While running-- and yes, he was honest enough to admit he ran-- he made it to the back end of a street and saw the poster that'd exhilarate him for years to come. It simply read, with faded letters:

"TO COLORED MEN! FREEDOM! PROTECTION, PAY, AND A CALL TO MILITARY SERVICE!"

On the front was an able black man saluting his country. Some would have called it ironic and even unbelievable-- but not TJ. Immediately he knew his destined time had come in the form of an invite, the world quietly whispering to him: _Come, you have made it. Now show us what some negro like you can do to rewrite the stars of history._

"I'm a Boston boy," he said to himself. "I am not some quitter."

He didn't take the opportunity, who will? Who would follow in his footsteps? How would he make his mark? 

TJ knew the sign meant struggles, illness and even death. But if also meant honor, and fighting-- and that he, a Boston negro, could finally hold a God-to-honest gun alongside the whites. Truly, a God-ordained miracle.

*

*

TJ spent the rest of that night wide awake, dreaming of the feats he'd have during the war. The courage and blood he'd go through, the sweet taste of victory at the end... All was worth it. Smiling, TJ looked at the cracked ceiling above him. He imagined it opening up, revealing the clearest, brightest sky ever to be seen in his east coast city. He could feel the fresh air now, the Heavens chanting his name, encouraging his march forward to reach the beyond.

 _We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness._ Weren't those the golden words? If that was the American dream, he'd reach it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orginally, this was supposed to be one chapter, meaning what I'm going to now write in chapter two was also supposed to be here. However, I'm a very impatient person and I'd love to post as soon as possible. I'd love support and feedback because updates are so hard these days due to school. Thanks for reading! Keep the MCGA love alive and of course the love for this amazing character. <3


	2. O, but how the band marches on!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you glance out the window, you’ll see their golden buttons worn with  
> pride  
> (But mind, my dear, Pride both as weapon and demise  
> burn deeply as the sun bears down on their coats that, within a week,  
> may be tattered by fight)  
> Oh, yet these men march on!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried my best to fit in historical events along with TJ's personal experience! Next chapter will take a while but know that I'm trying my best to push a lot out there :) I also apologize for the long wait, but I suppose in the end it's not a big deal.

Finding able men was not the problem. Boston had fortified Camp Meigs that took in soldiers on a daily, including the sons of the famous Frederick Douglass. The problem, rather, it was finding the resources for both the Union and Confederate sides adequate enough for all men. "It's not a good problem to have," TJ told Butler, "but at least we know we have good numbers."

"So do the Southerners," Butler reminded him. He pointed up ahead. "Look, we've made it."

TJ made himself over to the rail. The breeze carried on, enchanted--or perhaps ominously. Beaufort, South Carolina. The waters stretched ahead, the sun setting in a golden haze against the depths. _Beautiful_ , TJ admitted, _for the very state we're against above all else_. 

Those prideful, arrogant South Carolinians! So proud of their racist land, their affluent, lazy ways. _It'll be fun opposing them_ , TJ thought almost bitterly as his other shipmates seemed to be anticipating the presence of Major General David Hunter himself. 

Butler sighed. "Ready to fight under white men so we can ironically show them we can be independent?"

TJ grinned. "Born ready."

"I'm sure you were," Butler scoffed. "How much you want to bet by the end of this week alone we don't have the proper supplies?"

TJ shrugged. "We'll have harder times to come. Plus, I'm broke. I have nothing but my soul to bet."

"Thomas," Butler said seriously, "do you think we can win this war?"

Straightening his cravat, TJ said positively: "Yes."

Butler slowly nodded, as if contemplating something as he narrowed his eyes at the scrawny, reckless teen. The nod indicated he came to a conclusion-- but it was one in which he did not share with his subject.

Not everyone had the same hope as time went by. It was true, supplies were tough to maintain and even those staying at home, waiting for the anarchy to be over, were devastatingly impacted. That's how many soldiers lost their faith: knowing their family was suffering, or that they had left behind a normal life. Luckily for TJ, he didn't have much of a family back home. Plus, "normal" meant enslavement, so it really wasn't better. The other colored men in the 54th Massachusettes regime knew this too.

Many didn't complain, even with the harsh conditions. However, the anticipation was a type of poison of its own. Elders and teens barely sixteen alike paced and talked of the moment it was their time to make their mark on the battlefield, whether the fates treated them kindly or not. As TJ chatted up a storm, Butler remained deathly quiet, occasionally glancing at his clothing or the little supplies they managed to share together. His last mutter was, "I volunteered for this," as if reminding himself where he'd come from.

News of the X-Corps-- their new Union group-- came in daily. Sometimes it was about the new recruits the free black Boston communities managed to enlist, sometimes it was about the increase or decline in supplies, sometimes plans for future battles within the South Carolina area. Of course, one could not escape the uneasiness of the white Union soldiers that knew the risk they were taking with the negroes. Questions of David Hunter's leadership circulated, but the man would pay it no heed and would go on about his qualifications, usually referencing to the Bible when talking of liberty.

"Who would've known after years in this field I'd be in command with the likes of you?" He wondered out loud. "First Douglass, now you all. Look, boys. We Yankees have the strength to win, mark my words. But best believe it's going to be a harder fight than imagined. Gov'ner Andrew didn't just prioritize us for nothing. And don't think I forgot the potential Robert Shaw saw in you, back in Camp Meigs."

"Aye, _Black Dave_ ," someone amongst the crowd muttered, earning a few collective chuckles. Even though the man was anything but black, the nickname had stuck now that he was the leading Colonel of the regiment.

"The man hasn't even seen hard yet," Butler whispered in TJ's ear, who tried his best to pay attention to the speech. Hunter boasted about the progress being made, especially with recruits even from Florida, though they haven't proved to be effective yet. "We're growing stronger in quantity," he said. Eyeing his men, he concluded: "I pray quality becomes a factor, too."

Naturally, TJ worked hard to train and keep up with what the Civil War-- as it was titled-- threw at him. Pangs of hunger were something every man had to deal with, and in those times of frustration, TJ felt the heat rising but refused to let it discourage him. He pushed Butler to follow his lead and make themselves useful, whether it was cheering the others up or engaging in impromptu strategy talks. They all had the same general background, so finding acquaintances wasn't hard, especially since TJ was naturally a talkative person. Looking around, he knew he wanted to earn their respect--and he wanted to respect them, too.

Perhaps that sense of eagerness and curiosity fueled his troublemaker tendencies. He'd argue with his peers, question their skills and challenge them with otherwise harmless acts of jest and comedy-- usually getting either laughs or retorts of him being a child-- and if Butler didn't step in to bring out the logical side of the situation, TJ would get into minor scrimmages.

"Unfortunately," Butler would try to justify, "I suppose it is natural for the oppressed to either fight back when even lightly challenged-- or to crumble permanently under the tyrant's pressure. Jest is healthy, but I do hope Thomas learns to grow up with this experience. A boy must learn to be a man during war. And men need their strength, their camaraderie..."

The man TJ had fought with-- among quite a few people in the future-- went by Elias. It wasn't a serious fight-- quite petty, actually. It was a one-hit-and-retreat ordeal in which the main point was to get the other off their case, not to cause real damage. But apparently the object wasn't clear, or perhaps it was dealt with impulsively, but Elias pressed on. TJ wasn't one to quit, so naturally, he continued, too. Friends that witnessed this broke them up, warning that _Black Dave_  (as they liked to call the Major General) would come and really "cause for a whipping".

It wasn't clear if Dave learned about the incident, but he did spend plenty of time later on that week to stress the importance of responsibility and cooperation amongst peers. Butler kept glaring at TJ, resulting in the youth to simply roll his eyes. "You would've done the same in my position..."

"Hm," Butler hummed skeptically. "Look, just do as you're told."

"Yes, _mother_."

Butler glared harder but refused to protest. It wasn't worth it. "If Elias doesn't help you when a Confederate has you on the wrong side of his gun, don't come crying to me-- if you're even left at that point."

"I'm never left. I have a mean right hook," TJ said with a smirk.

Butler pulled TJ's ear just to get him to shut up.

"I just want respect," TJ whispered.

"Oh, yeah, you're totally going to get that with your poor attitude."

"At least I'm not such a downer, _William_."

Butler mouthed _Kids_ but went back to listening to Dave's speech. "...The Florida enlistment hasn't been as drastic as we thought. However, we'll still have our chance sooner rather than later. A battle's coming, I can feel it." He sternly looked at the sky. "God knows, that's for sure. Time will tell whether or not the other white folks of the Union want to keep this ragtag group going. If I had a say, of course, all of you'd be marching on that field right now, ready to fight them Southerners. Regardless of the size of this group after our first decrease in food and other necessities, we're the Union now. I'm sure you want to prove 'em wrong." 

Casualties were only going to get increasingly common, but still, it was a shock when Elias was one of the first of the growing organization to die. A small gathering was made within their camp for the man, especially for his friends. TJ was among them, remember their last big exchange was a fist fight. Later on that day, he stopped Butler outside his tent, tugging on the man's sleeve to get him to abruptly stop. "Thank you," Thomas managed.

Butler frowned. "I didn't do anything."

"You're too humble," TJ mused. "Thank you for being my friend... my brother. I can't lose you too..."

Tilting his head, Butler seemed to be contemplating in his usual secretive way. His expression softened as he pursed his lips with concern. "Of course, Thomas. You're my family, too. Remember, I lost my brothers. You did as well. Now we have each other. It was a twisted play of faith, sure, but--" He couldn't finish, for TJ was already hugging him tightly, softly weeping.

Butler smiled. "Okay, okay... Go to sleep, Thomas. You'll need it."

TJ smiled and nodded, wiping the few tears he had remaining on his cheek. "I love you, you know?"

Butler rolled his eyes. "You too, kid." 

* * *

Thankfully, the morbid air at least did not last. 1862 was overall a time of change in the negro Union soldier's lives as they took on their new challenge of fighting in an army relatively powerful on both sides. Training and general adjustment to the war began, along with its early struggles. Perhaps even more revolutionary was Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation, finalized on the first of 1863's January. Even the chill could not freeze the sudden inspiration of the colored men. 

Huddled together, snow softly fell, the world stilling. One man read the excerpts: "That on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free..." Sounds of simultaneous shock rippled upon the crowd, some gaping and shock and others immediately weeping. TJ noted the responses with an open, compassionate heart, bleeding for the sake of their shared ancestors. 

The proclamation continued: "And by virtue of the power, and for the purpose aforesaid, I do order and declare that all persons held as slaves within said designated States, and parts of States, are, and henceforward shall be free..." Folks now hugged, held hands, and began to lift their heads to the heavens thankfully, praising and still asking for much-needed assistance still. "And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of justice, warranted by the Constitution, upon military necessity, I invoke the considerate judgment of mankind and the gracious favor of Almighty God. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the seal of the United States to be affixed." The words now stumbled from the man, perhaps older than most within the group. Then, wrinkles and a wiry face could not shake the slow, tired smile. There was finally a light.

"And what about Jefferson Davis?" someone amongst the crowd asked.

"Damn him!" a youngster replied. "It's nothing new, being threatened to be in our position, especially with a war that is _centered_ around slavery." He shook his head. "Anyone of them louts could run there tongues all they want, they still have to get to us, on our side, with the rest of the army."

Shouts, songs of praised shared, stories of the past told with total strangers. It was truly a memorable sight, so indescribable for the overwhelm of hope that sparked the relief of a more liberalized life flooded out pain for a brief second, and cured the doubt that love for their people was impossible. Reassurance of worth and pride were worn on all faces, and a deeper brotherhood was formed. It is true that, only when faced with the greatest tribulation of man, can one begin to understand pure euphoria. Their souls and battles no longer in vain, a new sense of identity emerged. Mark the prophet's words, abolition welcomes everyone, if hearts ever won against a cruel world.

William Butler met TJ's eyes, an uncommon and genuine graceful smile on his face. Squeezing TJ's cheeks and embracing him for a lengthy amount of time, the two brothers were far more inseparable and dependent on each other. A new understanding was conveyed, one that made past complications nothing but a faded memory. In its place was an emotional bond of their very beings. Butler allowed himself to shed a tear, to now be the younger sibling as Thomas rubbed his back, trying to tease. "What did I tell you?"

"There's God," Butler said hoarsely. "There's some force out there, perhaps."

How impractical, yet TJ welcomed that possibility. 

* * *

Celebrations for the war effort were necessary to encourage the Union, especially with battles so close. On May 28th, 1863 local blacks and Northern abolitionists greeted the 54th Massachusettes regime as they remained in Beaufort, accompanied with the 2nd South Carolina Volunteers led by James Montgomery. Anticipation mixed in with the excitement of the crowd--especially after Lincoln's promised liberty--made the men restless yet they abided their time in the best spirits they could muster and shared their ideas of what their new life could be after the war.

William Butler pointed out a specific middle-aged man to TJ, voice low in awe. "That's Mr. Harris," he said. "Was part of the Port Royal Experiment."

Thomas smiled. "Boston boy?" He raised an eyebrow, impressed. "How old is he?"

Butler shrugged. "Fifty? We must meet him."

So it was decided. Mr. Harris was already surrounded by a few other soldiers and leaders alike, both young and old, wanting to hear of his time. He waved off a few, smiling nevertheless. He wore simple dress clothes, and his white hair contrasted greatly with the chestnut suit. "Give an old man some space," he teased, and leaned on his cane for support. He noticed TJ's gaze and gestured with a simple nod for him to come closer. 

"And how old are you?" he asked, analyzing the two boys.

"I'm seventeen," TJ answered.

Butler nodded. "Nineteen." He shook Mr. Harris's hand. "Nice to meet you, sir. Are there any other locals from Boston?"

"A few." His eye twinkled. "Y'all some Boston boys?"

"Born and raised," TJ said with a grin, shaking the old man's hand as well. "Port Royal Experiment?"

"Indeed," he said with a chuckle. "Been working on this land for years. The Sea Islands have been liberated. Strange, since this is the deep Confederate South."

"What would you say to our chances of being equal--free?" Butler asked seriously. "Consider the war balance. Do basic negroes like us stand a chance?"

TJ nodded along to Butler's questioning, noticing the glazy look in the old man's eyes. He finally answered: "Look around, boys. We have ourselves a community of the working class. We've been bearing unfair treatment for as long as our minds can remember, even in childhood. We have walked through the unimaginable, and now we are in the middle of a war. And the big dogs are behind us." He gestured around to the old men, the young men-- tired and spirited. He gestured to the women and children who came, solely to believe with their own eyes that change hadn't been unreal. "When you wear those uniforms, when you fight, you're doing it in the name of our country, and more importantly our ancestors and legacy. It is not, now that we have a chance, a matter of _if we win_. It is a matter of honor, and of hope. Regardless of the outcome." 

Thomas spoke up: "I think myself as free."

Mr. Harris nodded slowly, lips turning upward slightly. "Then you're already there."

Another man rushed up to Mr. Harris. "Sir, the infantryman asked for advice and your opinion on..." and several incoherent voices drowned out the rest as Butler rested a hand on TJ's shoulder. "Come, we should stick with the others. I'm sure there are civilians waiting for our reassurance."

"Is this what it feels like to be famous?" TJ asked.

Butler scoffed half-heartedly. "Don't get used to it."

The rounds went on, talking to commoners and authority alike, and before long dinner was held at some local bar. A toast was made for all participants of the Union side, wishing luck and victory for their people. "Black pride is the best pride!" came the shout, and the company gladly repeated. Dinner was lovely enough, as it could be with supplies ready to dwindle under the pressure of the war. Neediness would soon become a problem, with the soldiers and for households alike. However, this was hardly discussed. Many talked about their military background, their family at home, and personal aspirations they may have to bid farewell. The attention shifted from the authorities to the younger participants such as TJ, and as soon as one of his fellow infantrymen mention his troublesome habits, he grinned and gladly told the tale to anyone interested.

Slinging an arm around Butler, he said "Couldn't have done it without him. Why do you tell us about the horse incident, hum?"

Butler shot his friend a look but, prompted by the room, he nevertheless complied and told the amusing, baffling story. Soon enough, laughter erupted, leaving Butler smiling awkwardly. TJ had made a comment about safety measures, and Butler was quick to scold. "Thomas, you mean that as a joke, I'm sure, but have you considered your own safety precautions?"

"I've been doing better," TJ protested.

"We just got free," Butler reminded him. "More or less... Don't start being reckless now."

TJ rolled his eyes. "At a celebration, mind you?"

"Battles are coming. This celebration is a distraction. Much needed, and yes, I implore for you to really introspect about what is being said. But please, for the love of all things holy, don't forget the troubling times that may await us."

"Dear Willaim, you do worry for me so. Part of you wants me to 'grow up' and yet you see me as a man, here, facing our situation." Thomas sipped some wine, and Butler glared, already have letting his opinion on Thomas drinking known. "You see, I am your brother. I am two years younger than you. You warn me against danger because you too are reckless, whether or not you want to admit it. You're just more reluctant, franker. Bet there's part of you who wants me to be young."

There was a beat of silence, and Butler scoffed. "When did you become so wise?"

"I learn from the best." Thomas scoffed down the rest of his wine and smirked. Clinking the glass to annoy Butler, he then proposed another toast for the two of them exclusively. Butler nearly boxed his ears for that.

The very last event of the night was both soulful and political. A speech was made in favor of the Union, wishing well men and boys alike. There was a hearty applause, and though TJ was perhaps drunker than he'd like to admit, the whole ordeal had a calming effect on him, and he soon grew sober as the whole of the company sang as many hymns and hues they could for one night, before the organizers of the meeting wished everyone individually the strength needed to walk down a solider's weary path.

To Butler, TJ heard them compliment his demeanor of patient authority and rightful logic. Then, when it was his turn to exit, Mr. Harris himself stopped him. "Thomas, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Last name?" he asked in curiosity.

TJ clenched his jaw nervously. "Jefferson."

Mr. Harris and the main organizer shared a look of interest. "Ironic."

"I've been told so."

"Mama had high expectations," Mr. Harris said, and the other man laughed. 

"Indeed." TJ smiled briefly.

"Well, Thomas Jefferson--Jr.-- it would be wrong of me to not recognize your fine countenance. You're going places, I am sure of that."

"Well, sir," TJ began, "respectfully, I must say that I am really no different-- in the broad sense of the word-- than any of the other brave men in that room."

"Humble, for having the last name Jefferson. I've heard a bit about you. As I said, I myself am from Boston. I barely have any kin there anymore, you see. Yet I know 54th Massachusettes is a fine group with ties in my city. The point is, I've seen bits of your spirit and I am glad we have hopeful hearts, not too despondent of the general outlook."

TJ shrugged. "Gotta have high hopes."

Mr. Harris nodded. "Sure, I've stopped other men such as yourself to chat. But I have a feeling you'll live up to that name. Better, I am sure you already have. Being here proves it."

"Sir, what makes you say any of this?"

The other man continued to say goodbye to the other men behind TJ so the line wasn't held up, but Mr. Harris paid them no heed. His focus remained on TJ. "I feel these days a simple show of support goes a long way. Having these conversations-- well, they may be the very thing one may need to prevent themselves from resorting to self-affliction when the war becomes agonizing." His eyes twinkled. "Besides, I want to tell my grandchildren I talked to the man that bore the very surname of that Jefferson. I want to tell them, because of his efforts and the men that fought beside him, we're free."

Thomas shook the man's hand one final time before saying his earnest thanks and quickly leaving. Most would say it was a bad omen, having the name of a slaveholder as himself was no stranger to the horrid practice. But what that elder had said never ceased to remind Thomas Jefferson, Jr. of his amazement regarding the journeys and repetition of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning excerpt from an original piece by me, titled "Darling, March On."
> 
> P.S., it's voting day, so you all better spread the word!!!!


	3. To the Everlasting (Glory, glory, hallelujah)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see TJ's final fight during the battle of Fort Wagner.
> 
> (There were two battles that took place here, and in the third book it's not specified which one. This would leave us to assume it was the first battle, and yet the second one is noted more as the regiment proved their worth for a second time and *spoiler* it's also memorable because Colonel Shaw died then as well. It also have me more plot room. Therefore, humor me and let's just say TJ died during the second battle.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who've left comments. Nice to know you guys find my writing enjoyable and are willing to support the fandom! 
> 
> Now that we're on the topic of black pride/history, I feel I must share this with you: https://wellreadblackgirl.com/ "...Brooklyn-based book club and online community that celebrates the uniqueness of Black literature and sisterhood."

The 54th Massachusettes regime took part in many operations against Charleston, including the Battle of Grimball's Landing and the Second Battle of Fort Wagner. These events took place with one day between them in July of 1863. The former held a disorganized Confederate attack which was aborted due to marshy grounds, leaving the Federal troops to withdraw from the island. This attack took place near Savannah Railway Bridge. Two forces were made, some near Stono River to threaten rival troops, the other force as a backup on James Island. Butler had been at Stono, TJ at James Island.

The latter force was attacked, the anticipation agonizing for TJ. As the violence increased, he fired almost aimlessly and had knocked off several rivals at his heels, one almost pushing him down in a fetal position. Heart racing, Thomas was almost surprised that he was suddenly fearful. There were shouts, men dropping left and right and Thomas could no distinguish which of his friends were harmed or if they had the advantage. He felt so small as a bayonet almost slashed him, tripping over himself in the process. _Get up!_ his mind screamed. _You CAN NOT die here!_  Once he resorted to foul play, punching a man squarely in the jaw, when he looked up to see a friend by the name of Joe Wilson struggling with two different Rebs. Joe locked eyes with Thomas, face distorted with sudden terror as a bullet shot through his neck. Blood splattered and a cry of pain was uttered as Joe fell to the ground, listless. 

Thomas hit the ground fast, rolling over as he was almost knocked unconscious by some other blow. Looking at the pale sky, he processed that Joe had died. Dear Joe, with four brothers and want for kids and a wife, had died by twenty-six. The sun was suddenly blinding, and feeling as if so close to death, the youth was shocked to see something whirling in the sky. Ladies on horses, with lightning and spears, and a glowing aura that pained TJ's eyesight and strained his memory of the myths mother had alluded to a few rare occasions before... of gods in Boston. Of all places! First, TJ thought he was delirious. 

 _What had Mother said? Dad, who never visited, was like some god?_ On cue, the ladies had raised their arms, almost like in a salute. Instantly, vague visions and thoughts flooded TJ's mind like some gifts from Heaven. They told him who he was, who _they_ were, that more universes were at stake. That everything-- his blood, the war, the whole damned world-- was connected, in one gigantic, delicate string. _Valkyries._ They were messengers of the Greats.

He saw his mother smiling in Heaven. Thomas clenched his jaw as the sky came into focus again, the hallucinations gone. He wasn't afraid anymore. If he was going down, he'd have to accept his own death, too. If dad was some god, and he was channeling a message of inner bravery... He couldn't let him down. He would make his father proud, avenge all of what his ancestors tried to stand for, all the way up to now. Calm passed over TJ's body, and he quickly dashed up and sent shot firing and his bayonet swinging, taking down two Rebs before running to the outskirts so he wouldn't get harmed. 

With a bleeding shoulder, Terry finally ordered the two forced to unify once more, and all was said and done. Limping slightly, TJ met up with Butler again as they went to the infirmary. "Are you okay?" Butler asked. "You look pale. Do you need whiskey? Don't faint on me."

TJ nodded absentmindedly. "I'm fine," he said with a voice crack. "I just... I understand now."

Butler didn't look like he completely understood, and yet he didn't push further questions.

*

The latter of the battles was a Union defeat, yet the courageous performance of the 54th MA was noteworthy. TJ remembered Governor Andrew's previous comment he had shared right before the initial South Carolina arrival: "I know not wherein all human history to any given thousand men in arms there has been committed a work at once so proud, so precious, so full of hope and glory as the work committed to you." Yes, they were down in history. TJ's prophecy had come true.

And so the soldiers marched on with grit, with humility and the fire of those who desire to be heard. They waved their flags, wore their torn and tattered clothes and pride, and though it was not glorious upon remembrance of all the blood and starvation, the end was near.

Pausing, before the night of the Second Battle, a toast was raised for the men back at their quarters. After a chain of handshaking and support, TJ recalled that his favorite memory of all started when the group of soldiers began to sing "Battle Hymn of the Republic". He recalled the silence as the first lines were said:

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;  
He is trampling out the vintage where grapes of wrath are stored;  
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,  
His truth is marching on."

The group called out: "Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on."

William Butler clapped and gripped TJ's solider, and together they said, with the others:

"I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;  
They have built Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;  
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,  
His day is marching on."

_Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory..._

It repeated, even when Fort Wagner had come. "I want you to prove yourselves," Shaw said. "The eyes of thousands will look on what you do tonight." He had said this is to a gathered 600 men that day. TJ's fellow infantry group had to be extremely careful crossing the moat that surrounded the protected fort. Glancing at the guns and mortars, TJ's stomach flipped with adrenaline. They had to win this time. Their own weaponry had to be used skillfully, their wits couldn't be swayed by Confederate intimidation. Freedom had never been so close. "The coming of the Lord," he muttered, gripping his bayonet and clenching his jaw harshly. 

Time passed slowly. There was barely a word uttered besides that of Colonel Shaw and the other higher ranked authorities, though brief nods and glances were shared throughout the group. The importance was quite obvious, the stakes now higher. A family had been formed, and to see anyone slip up or die--inevitable as it was--seemed to harden the spirits of the men, making them hungrier than what they had been back in enslavement. Butler kept brooding in his ominous way, his hands fidgeting as TJ remained uncharacteristically still. Tension, patience, focus... Left, right, left, right, and repeat. This isn't Boston anymore.  _Dulce decorum est._

Slowly, the day starts to break and night falls around the anxious soldiers. _Anytime now_. "Butler," TJ hissed.

"What?" his companion said briskly.

"They're close."

"Yes."

"But you see how important that is?"

"Thomas," Butler said impatiently, "it's been important."

"I mean, you have my back?"

"What?"

"You heard me." TJ elbows Butler in the chest.

"A stupid question," William Butler says half-heartedly. "I'm the only one tough enough to tolerate you here."

With a brief smile, TJ turned away, taking a deep breath. They're close.

The 54th regime found themselves on Fort Wagner's parapet, against the Confederates. Before any battle, there's a heavy silence. And just about when your nerves are about to shatter, and you reach quickly for your nearest weapon, that is when the gates of hell are brought open for all raging souls to witness. The silent signal was made, the scared and weary met with the cold and determined. It's hard to say the order in which these men are living and dying, for there is absolute chaos; nothing but an animal desire to kill for the sake of a cause, man against man and dust against dust. Advancing on the parapet, the Union forces slashed and hacked their way into the crowd, gunshots firing and bayonets slashing. It was all a blur with the blind acts made to survive, to win. If they didn't wear the blue uniform, they go down. Simple rules in war, are there? If you see your fellow brothers kneel or fall, you continue to shield yourself so you can avenge the righteous and demolish the damned.

TJ was quick to follow suit. One man down, and another, and another... Slash, doge, fire twice, run, shove, and slash again. This, followed by several shots, and he had already made dozens of enemies and those calculating for their next kill. _Kill!_ TJ's mind screamed. _You are merely wounding them. Advance, advance, keep going! Glory, glory, hallelujah..._

Blood will always be on one's conscious, killing will always be a chain reaction. Yet when you are confronted with the question of morality, sometimes the question of justice leads you astray. Sometimes you are born to fight, and such a tainted world would make you faithfully and solemnly swear you were born for destruction. Thomas Jefferson, Jr. considered himself an honest boy who is now an honest man, one who tried to keep his faith and teachings left by his mother. Mother is up there in Heaven, and with the rest of the angels, they weep now that man is against one another. So, so thirsty for blood, so desirous for change.

Hit in the ribs, TJ doubled back but instinctively reached for his gun and fired desperately. Tripping an opponent with his outstretched leg, he threw his bayonet down and heard a deadly crunch and groan. Lifting once more, he cut the throat of a Confederate that was right in front of him and stepped over the body, pushing himself to keep going. Blood soaked his hands, and gulping he reminded himself of the future torture his people would face if he had given up. No, he must be brave and realize all the death had to be worth it. This was no longer some jest, he was no longer a poor Boston boy! One cannot foolishly yield.

One hero for a thousand cowards. That is the truth about those who seek war.

Glory, glory. No song of hallelujah!

Several cries lasted for what seems to be forever, but one cry terrified Thomas to the very bone-- and this is because it was his name being said. At first, TJ thought it was another delusion. However, upon looking up and seeing no mystical light of the unknown, TJ knew it was dear William Butler. His brother, his only true love. Whipping around, TJ saw Butler crumble to the ground, clutching a bleeding arm tightly and wincing. Thomas had led him to the center of the crowd, and now Butler had paid for it.

Rushing to his side, Butler waved him off weakly. "Go, brother," he managed with a painful smile. "Make us proud."

That was all to it. Tears streaming down the youth's face, Thomas squeezed Butler's hand once and continued to fight with renewed passion and energy. Screaming an outcry, he marched toward the enemy. On cue, that is when the main fire of canons started. 

Smoke blurred in TJ's eyes, but he kept advancing. With a violent glare in his wet eyes, he clenched his jaw and pulled as many enemies close as he kept them from his peers. Though hit in the back and slashed at the ankle, barely a cry was uttered as TJ whipped around and shot. _Boom!_ the canon screeched. Puffs of dirt clouds surrounded the men as more shouts were heard, some who must have hesitated for too long. Union soldiers, Confederate soldiers, they mixed into one as sight became hazy yet again. 

There was a point where the firing finally died down, and all were waiting for the next orders. The first thing TJ did was glance anxiously to find Butler. He had to stay in position, but every body on the floor and every blue-colored man getting treated reminded TJ was his friend. "William," he said raspily to himself. "William! _Butler!_ " 

A muffled reply sounded an awful lot like _Thomas_. TJ smiled. There was, at least, hope. Satisfied for now, TJ happened to be looking forward, awaiting the next round of slaughter. Upon any reflection the merciful Heavens had granted him, TJ still felt baffled about the next chain of events. It was, of course, a very possible occurrence, more possible in thinking there were some gods roaming around and messing with the fate of the war. Yet after such pride, TJ wasn't imagining it ever happening to him. Regardless, a Confederate on the enemy lines stood up, having direct eye contact with TJ. He was glaring, with squared shoulders and a head raised high. Pointing his sword at TJ's heart, miles away, he infamously retorted: "You nigger!" 

TJ's eyes widened as instant hate struck his own heart, as if that pointed sword was poisonous. The man demanded: "Come out and fight me man-to-man!"

He was singled out. That damned gray uniform, those pale blue eyes and dusty blonde hair...The white of his hands against that sword, that musket... TJ had all the desire in the world to march right up to him and just start hacking away the man who dared question his worth, his integrity and cause. Thomas Jefferson, Jr. liked to think of himself as an honest, moral man. But all the inner honesty in his soul said one thing: _I want him to die._ And, on second thought:  _I can't see him win._

 _It was a hopeless display of bravery,_ TJ liked to think about it. _Someone says "Fight me," and you do it._

Glory, glory, hallelujah. 

Guided by blind anger and the need to avenge his very being, TJ dodged the fortifications single-handedly. The absolutely _insane_ thing was that TJ swore up and down that several Rebs were shooting at him, and that quite a handful did not mess. There was a vague sense of time, and though there was little impact that indicated a wound, blood swirled all around TJ. Confederates were saying the most vulgar, violent phrases known to humanity and yet there was no sound, not even up the gunshots and the canons and the cries from the Union side, already mourning for the soul taunted and led astray that night. His legs kept running, though feeling like heavy lead, and caught up to that damned lieutenant easily. Only one thing mattered now: sweet blood, sweet death of a fallen warrior, splatters of scarlet on both white and black hands.

It was a miracle that the Confederate solider's own fighting didn't faze Thomas at all. First shot in the heart, then jabbed in the gut with a bayonet. Quick anger flashed in his face as TJ advanced, but just as quickly it was matched with sickly horror as the Reb fell dead on the ground, clutching at his wounds and spitting blood on TJ's worn shoes.

Of course, the glorious triumph and bloodlust TJ basked in soon came to an end, because he too had been shot and wounded by the countless group of savage men around him. Dozens gathered as TJ weakly smiled, falling onto his knees right beside the solider-- Jeffrey Toussaint was the name-- and laid calmly on his back, eyes up to the sky. He couldn't hear anyone's words or facial expressions. Reality had already ceased, but finally, TJ embraced the ultimate fate bound by his head: a bloody, courageous and sweet death, blood of both his own and his enemies mixed before him.

Thomas Jefferson, Jr. still smiled as he faintly heard the Heavens open up amidst the war.

 _He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;_  
_He is sifting out the hearts of men before His Judgement Seat._  
_Oh! Be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant, my feet!_  
_Our God is marching on._

 _In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,_  
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;  
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,  
While God is marching on.

_Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!  
Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To show their contempt for the soldiers of the 54th, the Confederates dumped all of their bodies in a single unmarked trench and cabled Union leaders that 'we have buried [Shaw] with his niggers.' The Southerners expected that this would be such an insult that white officers would no longer be willing to fight with black troops. In fact, the opposite was true: Shaw’s parents replied that there could be 'no holier place' to be buried than 'surrounded by…brave and devoted soldiers.'"
> 
> -
> 
> "I have perserveringly struggled, against a thousand difficulties, and have succeeded, although not in making money, still in attaining a position in the world of Letters. I have no reason to be ashamed." ~Edgar Allan Poe

**Author's Note:**

> queennyixie.tumblr.com If ya wanna scream at me
> 
> This is wayyy past over-due...
> 
> References:  
> http://riordan.wikia.com/wiki/Thomas_Jefferson_Jr.  
> https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/fort-wagner https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/fort-wagner-and-54th-massachusetts-volunteer-infantry  
> https://www.gilderlehrman.org/content/african-american-soldiers-battle-fort-wagner-1863  
> http://www.encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=6391
> 
> I haven't included the Civil War in my main studies but I tried my best to make sure the information presented was accurate! I've had classes that went over the topic (so I obviously know the basics) but the only other source I've read in the time era is "Gone With the Wind" which...has its problems, of course, to say the very least.
> 
> I also used "Any Other Way" by We The Kings (see title) and WILL use "Battle Hymn of the Republic" to express some other key points in the story :')  
> 


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